


when the sun met the stars

by GDay_Yall



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Gangs, I mean, M/M, Old Sport, Oscar Wilde quotes, Speakeasies, all that fun stuff, and P!atD ones, and good fics, apologies for the liberal use of semicolons, because theres so many good ideas for that here, booze, brokerages, chaotic dumbass jay gatsby, imma throw my hat in, it gets bloody btw, lets save space and say everyone's fricking oblivious, look at the period, mob!au, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GDay_Yall/pseuds/GDay_Yall
Summary: we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars //When one Jay Gatsby seems to have fallen for Chase's newest brokerage, one Jordan Baker has fallen for a married woman, one Meyer Wolfsheim is too old for this, and one Nick Carraway just wants to go to bed at a normal time, thank you very much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hellow all! First published fic, so let's see how this goes

Jay Gatsby was not a patient man. Not by any standard. That, and he hated people driving for him, but he had an image he needed to maintain and if that meant dealing with chauffeurs other fuckers sent him then so be it. 

That, and he was still irritated as hell about Klipspringer breaking some piano keys at the last party. Damn idiot.

Nearing one of Walter Chase’s somehow-still-under-the-radar, legal-er establishments, he attempted to get his roaring temper under control. No matter how entertaining it was, he couldn’t yell at Chase (as much) here versus the speakeasy backrooms. 

A dark smirk found its way onto Gatsby’s face. Oh well. He always did enjoy threatening, a bit more elegant, more political, that was. He felt the car stop, but he was still plotting what to say to Chase - hang him by his entrails, or light his teeth on fire for his incompetence?

“Um, s-sir,” a shaky voice said from the driver’s seat. Locking eyes with the young man - a boy, really, flashed through Gatsby’s head, he looked barely out of primary school - Gatsby replied with a smile, “Yes, and thank you for the ride, old sport.” Pulling wallet, then a few bills out, he gave it to the boy. “Go enjoy yourself for the day, yes? But don’t spend it all in one place.”

Patting the bewildered kid on the shoulder, Gatsby left the car and buttoned his coat up, attempting to corral the dogs baying in his head for Chase’s blood. Up the stairs into the brokerage, he ran into Chase’s excuse for a secretary - Donald McCay, an all-around idiot in Gatsby’s opinion. 

“Mr. Gatsby!” he exclaimed, as though Gatsby didn’t know his own name. “How are you today sir? Here, let me take your coat, I’ll take you straight to Mr. Chase, he’s in his office now trying to work out a few logistical matters - “ an idiot, and one that didn’t know when to shut up, Gatsby thought as the little fly buzzed around him, taking him up the second story office.

A knock, an irritated ‘what’, and a door opening all happened in relatively quick precision. 

Walter Chase was an odd man in the fact he could justify every action he performed with a sense of negatory self-fulfillment. He drank to numb, he gambled to lose, he made his money any way that suits his fancy to pay for the other two. He was not one for disillusions or grandeur, he claimed to be far too old for that young nonsense, yet he pursued ratchet parties and bars all the same. 

In the time being, the suitable way to make money was speakeasy ledgers. Mathematically, he was a genuis; he could probaly balence the books in his head. Common sense wise, like many who aged through the industrial revolution and a war, he was lacking. But then again, aren’t we all. 

“Sir, Ga-” McCay began, getting cut off as Gatsby strolled in and said, “Walter, old sport, how are you!”

Gatbsy had this kind of voice that he could dictate at will; he could project it like a stage actor to fill every room, or make it softer than a mouse; he could make it dipped in honey and laid in barbs, make it be like anything he wants. But there's this one, one dipped in cyanide and coated in saccharine, that he used when trying to politely cover his anger. It didn’t really work; when Gatsby was pissed, everyone knew.

Like now, for instance.

McCay had at least a piece of mind to quietly excuse himself and shut the door, leaving his boss with the unfortunate case of dealing with his boss. Hopefully with little damage to property. And the walls. Hopefully.

“So,” Gatsby began with a shark-tooth smile. “What was so important that this couldn’t wait?”

“Fiances are off,” Chase said, getting straight to the point. You see, when Chase could not find an opening into a topic, he created one. Most often in the bluntest manner possible.

A pause. “What,” was the sour reply.

“Fiances. Are. Off,” Chase repeated, handing the ledger to the blond man who quickly snagged it. “So either someone got robbed, someone’s embezzling, or someone ripped you off. I’m leaning towards embezzle - the money from the Brooklyn bars seem oddly low.”

Gatbsy, as per usual when irritated, began to pace the sparse office. After one too many instances of outbursts, shoot outs, and plain irritating chances of fate - one of which was when someone got snagged on a coat rack leaving, which was kinda funny in the end - Chase had begun to keep little in his work office. His desk, chalkboards of stocks, a chair or two and a coat hanger farther from the door than strictly necessary were all kept far enough away so that Gatsby would either have difficulty reaching them, or he’d have enough room to pace a circuit. Made clean up easier, too, at the end of the day. 

“Brooklyn, Brooklyn,” Gatsby mused, flipping through the ledger’s pages. “They should have a higher return than this, shouldn’t they.”

“Exactly. But because of they all groupin' it, I can’t pinpoint the idiot trying to keep more than he should.”

“Hm. Well,” Gatsby snapped the book shut. “We should go pay them a visit, no? You, me, and Meyer, see how things are going down there?”

“You and Meyer, maybe,” Chace remarked as he took the book from Gatsby and returned it to its place in the desk. “I still have work here.”

“Then we’ll wait to tonight! It’s no problem.”

“But-”

“It’d be best if three went, no, old sport? Easier time convincing.”

“Maybe, but-”

“And doesn’t Marino’s have that good steak, too?”

“No that's -”

A soft knock interrupted Chase this time, much to his irritation. The whole staff knew not to interrupt when Gatsby was in the office.

A raised eyebrow from Gatsby and an irritated sign from Chase preceded the brunet man’s “enter.”

And in entered the most adorable man Gatsby had ever seen.


	2. a man who knows the price of everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Those kinds are always wild cards. And wild cards can make you lose a hand.”  
> “Or win one,” Gatsby reminded him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are amazing! Thank you for all the kind words and encouragement! I'll try to post more often, but spring is distracting me...

Gatsby was barely able to keep from gasping aloud. That would have been a terrible shame, to have startled the pretty man before having even met him. 

Oh, how could he describe him? The man looked to be in that peculiar state between boyhood and the life of man; the youthful sense of curiosity played with a quiet sense of knowledge that found a home in his eyes; there was enthusiasm in his air, yet pain found its way into the lines of his face. He appeared to be a wallflower, dressed plainly and acting as nervous as he was, but he easily caught all of Gatsby’s attention, better than any man or woman has before. Hell, he’s getting poetic. Curly tawny hair glinted in the simple light of the room, and Gatsby had half a thought of how it would feel tangled -- 

“Mr. Chase, my apologies for the interruption,” the man said, with a throw-away smile directed towards Gatsby, as though he was apologizing to him instead. He held up a relatively thick manila folder; continuing, “But you said you wished to see the Wall Street reports as soon as possible, sir, and they just came in.”

“Ah, right, bring them over, Carraway,” Chase waved his hands, granting this Carraway permission to enter.

The man scampered more than walked over to the desk, as though any unnecessary movement would get him into trouble. To get to the desk, though, he had to pass by Gatsby. He smelled distinctly like old books and mold, which Gatsby had found a bit worrying. What the hell was Chase making the man do?

Grunting in thanks, Chase took the manila folder and plopped it on the desk. 

Gatsby decided this would be the best time to interject. 

“Ah, I don’t believe we’ve met, old sport!” Gatsby exclaimed, causing the young man to jump slightly. The blond strolled to the curly haired man, a playful smile decorating his face as he held out his hand. “Jay Gatsby, nice to meet you…?”

“Oh! Ah, Nick. Nick Carraway,” the man said, stuttering over himself. “I’m Nick Carraway, sir, nice to meet you.”

Oh good God, he was cute, Gatsby unabashedly thought as he took his hand - strong grip, hm - and shook it. 

But Chase wanted to get paperwork done and wanted to finish talking to the walking personification of blond dynamite, so he coughed, catching Carraway’s attention.

“Ah, right, sir -” the two continued to discuss stocks and other things - a lot of things could keep Gatsby’s attention, but that was not one of them, so the man walked to the window to attempt to secretly admire the brunet.

Attempt is the key word here. As Gatsby - not very discreetly, mind you - admired the man’s ass, Chace noticed. He noticed, and inwardly sighed. Damn it. 

“- and try to get Leroy to convince that old fart to invest in infrastructure, will you? Might as well get them some money,” Chase finished, half muttering, waving to send Carraway off. 

The man half bowed, paired with a ‘yes sir’, sent that wayward smile to Gatsby again, then turned and left the room as quickly as he entered.

Chase glanced over to Gatsby - the blond had opened his mouth to say something about Chase’s good taste in men - and he simply blurt out a simple, “No.”

“No?” A raised eyebrow asked.

“I know that look, Gatsby, don’t play dumb,” Chase sighed. “Do not go around fucking my bondsmen. He’s legal, he doesn’t know about-” he pointed to the paperwork they were just discussing “- this, and doesn’t seem all too eager in joining it.”

Gatsby merely hummed. “So you're going about telling me what to do now, is that it, old sport?” 

Chase had known Gatsby well enough to know the airy tone of voice spelt trouble, but this was different. He shifted through his desk, replying, “It’s a warning, Gatsby. Carraway’s a new one around here, from out west. He doesn’t know how the city works. Hell, I don’t even know if he knows how the subway system works.”

Chase looked up to meet the younger man’s eyes. “Those kinds are always wild cards. And wild cards can make you lose a hand.”

“Or win one,” Gatsby reminded him, eyes trying to follow this ‘Carraway’’s figure through the door. 

Chase looked at the man, and thought. Coming to the conclusion that he didn’t quite like, he sat and sighed, leaning and resting his head in his hand.

“You’re thinking of him, aren't you,” he stated more than questioned.

“Why, yes.”

“You’re gonna pursue him.”

“Yep.”

“ No matter what I say on the topic.”

“Yep.”

“You’re not going to be persuaded off of this at all are you.”

“Nope.”

Chase sighed in exasperation, resonating, if not saying, ‘God damn it, child.’ “Fine, fine,” he ended up saying. “But if this blows up in your face, I don’t want it connecting back to me.”

Oh it won't, Gatsby wanted to say, but it probably would, knowing his luck. He cringed, thinking back to his advances to an old fling named Daisy that soured recently. 

“Yes, yes, fine,” Gatsby said, waving his hand and concocting a plan to woo the adorable brunet… shit, what was his name again...

“Anyway,” Gatsby exclaimed, in his typical grandeur, “I’m off. Call if anything… more happens, or if anything needs my attention. Tallihoo!”

Gatsby slammed the door behind him, humming some new dilidade and scaring half the floor. When he was happy, not much good came out of it. Gatsby, upon entering the smoggy streets of New York, decided to hunt down Meyer. He'd probably be at a nearby speakeasy, trying to rustle a deal or two. That, and the closest one had good pork belly.

Back in the office, Chase sighed and looked over his desk at the hardwood floor. “I’m gonna have to replace that soon,” he muttered, thinking he could see the pace tracks on the floor. A carpet, maybe, a Persian one. Something nice. 

Chase instantly dismissed that thought. Gatsby would just pace lines into that one, too.

**Author's Note:**

> More will hopefully be coming soon, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
